October.6, 2015

Uma, Subbi and Rama caught the Titvala local from Dombivili a 1976 afternoon. For no particular reason; they went at the urging of aunt Radhai. She lived on a firm belief: Ganesha knows best. In 1976, the Lord stayed in a spread of greenness and turning mud roads; in a quiet; they walked having promised to walk to the Lord; a few about to die tongas with not yet dead horses stood at Titvala East station absently. Usually a 40 minute walk; the Lord then had few devotees, a minor politician yet to major into a New Delhi minister. One Tuesday, Sankarshta chaturthi, Rama and me stood at the tailend of a line starting from the local train at Titvala station; after hours, made it; Rama lost her chappals; Dadi Ganesh makes it on the first of every month; son Ganesh has business deals with the Lord: promises a visit before a trip to Leh or a promotion at the office; mostly late to keep his part of the deal. 14 years ago me made a trip; last week did it in the Maruti Wagon R of Ganesh, wading through mud, having gone astray; saral (straight), javal (near), they said, the milkman and the farmer on the way; we thought we lost it; then sighted the temple top of the Lord; about four devotees were around; me prayed, for sure, did not demand anything; at 70 one cannot ask for favours; also one was down; Mohammed Aflaq was bugging; on the way, started praying for Aflaq, sure Lord Ganesh will help; thought the Lord was upset; and then, me had doubts; does the kingdom of Lord Ganesh extend to Aflaq; is Heaven one or many palatial ghettos; yet, prayed to Lord Ganesh; then got strung into the brilliant Tilakan in Malayalam film Ustad Hotel musing over Kismet; Kismet, he tells his grandson sipping a milkless tea on a beach. Is the killing of Aflaq, Kismet? If so, what Kismet is it? There was a way out of  Kismet. We could have let be Aflaq and his family. On the drive back aparajitas and blue morning glories peeped at me. Today, wept over the sense of Gopal Krishna Gandhi pleading for sanity with Rajdeep Sardesai. Gandhi had and does take rubbish; he never did kill nor kills; do not think me has any courage beyond saying SORRY to Aflaq and his family. That surely is not enough.

Marathi film Fandry by Nagraj Manjule and Baluta autobiography of Daya Pawar are uncomfortable. They whirl in me. In Fandry, a Dalit family of Kachre Mane (Kishor Kadam) is told to trap a pig with payment promised made by the village sabha. With reluctant son Jabya (Jambuwant Kachre Mane), wife and daughters, Kachre Mane heads the chase with high castes urging with sneers...one is not sure if the pig is chasing the Manes or otherwise... furious ..reminds one of Paar when Naseruddin Shan and Shabna Azmi get some 30 pigs across a deep flowing river...again they are low caste. From Vedic times, the chase has been ..the upper castes fencing out the low castes, poor and unwanted except for pig trapping ....today's gating out of the poor...Also the calls of a drongo and lapwings hum the air. From Baluta of Daya Pawar to Fandry there is no script change.. from words to cameras...Jerry Pinto, the translator writes: This is one of the finest autobiographies I have ever read, and I count it an honour that I was given the opportunity to translate it. Me agrees.  "Its been a while since we've had a good cut of  meat in the Maharwada," many an aged person would be heard saying." Daya moves on: Carrying a dead cow is killing. Its dead weight is enormous but only two men would carry it. All four of its hooves would be tied and a bamboo would be inserted between them, a huge needle threadled through the gap between its legs. It looked as if a palanquin were being carried. When it was a cow, the sight of those pathetic eyes turned sightlessly towards the sky would chill me. Those eyes haunt me still. My mother's eyes and a cow's eyes showed remarkable similarities, it seemed to me. When it was our family's turn to carry the carcass, my mother would have to do it. I could not bear to see her struggle for breath. I wished I were a little older, so I might be able to lesser her burden." Fandry ends with Jabya hurling a protesting stone. Daya Pawar would have assented. India 2015 is Vedic. 

squirrels holed in a banyan.
back-scratching the trunk
to own music.
exchanging souls.


......

catch the day early
in its quietness.
later, the city cries.


........



switched off tv.
turned off lights.
stiller than bodhisattavas.



.......



chauffeur alone,
with the car.
owner, alone, at the bar.


..........


having taken over the house
sparrows chirp,
hopscotch.



........


new moon.
full moon.
sun trifled.

an elephant slapped a crow
for picking its food.
the crow filed an fir.
the police cuffed the elephant,
questioned it, died.
the crow flew into exile.
elephant sent an sms ---
sorry, fly back  ---
to the misplaced mobile of
the crow drunk in a bar.

...........


watering earth and air at kurampala,
silences were shoplifted ----
from wells, stands of bananas, coconut palms,
rice stalks, tapioca greens, rubber trees,
other silences.
nights, slept to cricket cracks,
moon and clouds in a reality show.
for a happy while.



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four nepali youngsters
wipe tables at alleppey.
unknowns in knowns.



...........

mary nair,
shankar wankhede ---
lepers awaiting prayer cures,
pillion-riding believers ---
taped to churchwalls.
"god blesses me, always,"
assures mary nair,
nair gone,
leaving mary speaking english in style.
"may god bless you,
good day to you,"
chimes she as faithfuls drop coins into
her rag-coloured soul.she learnt english in africa
worries about grandkids.
a bearded smile  ---
shankar wankhede in a saffron turban;
from bhandara, has two strays.
not a short story,
a novel,
an essay,
a poem,
a press note,
they don't contest collections.
on amavasya nights,
absent street lights,
the two, framed, in the folds
of a beedi's glow.

not being of the same warp and weft
a murukkan-stained smile queried
from under a jackfruit tree:
"ishtapetto (like it)?"
"o (yes)", said my friend,
managing a stumble on a crooked, mud track.
84, in a white mundu, blouse,
a thorthu fronting ample breasts,
madhavi kutty pickets memories.
claims she:
the jackfruit is my age,
leftover from a crowd axed for seeding rubber.
a yakshi has her home guessing times.
a lingering clasp of lips behind the jackfruit,
her loving chettan,
tickles her to a chuckle.
prescribed a distance by karanavars
(it has shrunk, yet remains),
working in ricefields,
a cup of kanji someday,
a saucer the next,
but never together.
the track was a water-way,
the fields bore rice and tapioca,
there was day,
there was night,
there were laughs,
there were tears.
sloughing customs, flaunted a red flag.
hammer and sickle lie rusted.
emotions crusted.
a tin trunk,
loose change,
bits of bell metal,
kept her two daughters unwed;
caring madhavi they age.
lights the dawn with oil wicks in the
prayer room,
brooms the front yard,
eases with a cup of tea and mathrubhoomi.
now,
lost between acres of rubber
miles of jewellery billboards,
she is in an acceptance,
as a cool breeze curls up on the crown of
the jackfruit,
a piece of blue sky for a pillow.

on my piece of earth
temples are girdled with strays,
priests, pilgrims.
every rag picker pets a stray.
generations of strays, beliefs, believers ---
on a rotation, coming and going, ---
leave neither bark or bite.

on my piece of earth
nowhere to hide kills
(oh, nothing left to kill),
no arguments over graves
no discussions over pyres,
in corners,
strays nibble at teaspoons of grass.

on my piece of earth
sun, moon, stars nap in turns
as cars honk for right of way
running over strays.

on my piece of earth
fresh as a new sari,
revathi ambles to the temple praying,
smiling over fun  nights,
frowning over lunch menus for grandkids.
rarely misses the routine,
devotees search and sight her,
srays with bylines track her.

on my piece of earth
occasional notes of forest foot beats,
ancient drumbeats,
tender heart beats,
strays upbeat.


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